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Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

Page 32

by Lee Jackson


  Ryan nodded, and Paul made his way back to the rest area. On his return, carrying two cups of the hot liquid, he was surprised to see Air Vice-Marshal Park top the stairs and enter the gallery.

  Startled, Paul moved close to the wall to stay out of his way. Then, to his astonishment, the marshal stepped aside to make way for Prime Minister and Mrs. Churchill.

  47

  The prime minister’s path led right past where Paul stood backed against the wall. There was no avoiding him or his party. Holding the two coffee cups, he stood aside to let them pass.

  The PM bore a look of frustration, and then he saw Paul. He broke into a smile and removed an unlit cigar from his mouth. “Captain Littlefield. Dowding said I might see you here. Good show. Stephenson mentioned you’re on board.” Then he scowled at his cigar and waved it in the air. “I was just informed that I can’t smoke in here. The air conditioning can’t handle it.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Such is life.”

  Then he turned to his wife and Park. “This is the young captain I told you about.”

  “I’ve heard good things about you,” Mrs. Churchill said graciously.

  “Thank you,” Paul said. He knew little about the lady aside from what the general public knew: that her first name was Clementine, she was a life peer of Britain in her own right, and she and Winston had borne five children. He had not thought to research her further and wondered about her presence today.

  Park looked Paul over. “Good report.” He glanced past Paul down to the map table. “Excuse us, we must catch up.” Then, they moved off to their seats.

  In researching for his report, Paul had read the air vice-marshal’s dossier, and found it impressive. Born in New Zealand, Park not only had fought at the Somme as an artilleryman in the Great War, but he had also served as a pilot and flight instructor. He had learned the value of aerial reconnaissance and bombing from personal experience. After several command and staff positions as well as formal military schools and promotions during the years after the war, he had taken charge of 11 Group four months ago, in April.

  When Paul reached his own place, he caught Ryan staring at him. “I must say, you move about in high places,” she said.

  “Not so much,” he replied. “A one-off situation because I was put on a mundane task that got a bit of attention. That’s all.”

  “Of course,” Ryan said in a low, sardonic voice. “The PM knows all the captains in the Royal Army by name.”

  “Does he come here often?”

  Ryan shook her head. “This is his second time. The first was on the 18th of last month, but that’s been our hardest day. Two days later he made that speech in Parliament about ‘The Few.’”

  “I remember.”

  “That’s right, you were at Bentley. You saw the magnificence of our fighters.”

  “What about Sir Park?” Paul asked. “How often does he come?”

  “Not often. He frequently flies his personal Hurricane to visit the squadrons in the field. We dote on him, and so do the pilots.” She cocked her head. “I wonder what brought them both here today. That’s a bit peculiar.” She glanced grimly at the weather boards. “Then again, on this side of the Channel, the weather’s good for bombing runs.”

  Paul’s mind went to Menzies, Bletchley, and Claire. They’ve gotten wind of something. Today might be significant.

  Paul watched Park and Churchill, who were in deep discussion. Then, he turned his attention to the map. Several plotters were now on their feet, standing next to it, some pressing fingers against their earphones, some talking into their mics, others configuring markers or moving them across the map with the croupiers.

  “We’re having another buildup over the coast of France,” Ryan said. “See that new marker? It’s designated ‘H06 30+.’ That means it’s the sixth hostile formation and it has thirty or more aircraft. We won’t know until our coastal observers spot it what type they are. Those are large formations taking shape, probably bomber forces, and the markers are going up fast. The fighters will be joining them soon. Then, they’ll start this way within an hour. They can’t afford to loiter and use up fuel.”

  As they watched, the plotters pushed a few markers across the part of the map showing the English Channel. Moments later, they pushed more. A low hum of conversation arose from the floor as more plotters went to the map, spoke into their mics, pressed on their headphones, and placed even more markers on the map.

  Paul glanced at Ryan, who was staring at the map, fixated. “We’re in for a massive attack,” she murmured. “We’re approaching two hundred and fifty German aircraft heading this way.”

  On the RAF Biggin Hill tote board, five white lights flicked on under the “Left Ground” status, and plotters pushed out corresponding markers on the map.

  “We just deployed two squadrons of Spitfires to meet them.” She caught her breath. “That’s twenty-four of ours to meet two hundred and fifty of their fighters and bombers. Ours are climbing to twenty-five thousand feet.”

  Paul glanced at the clock again, surprised to find that another hour had gone by. The passage of time had seemed like minutes. The hour hand pointed at eleven, the minute hand at five minutes past the hour.

  “We’ve sent up more squadrons,” Ryan said. “We have five in position now.” She stood up straight, clasped her hands behind her back, and took in another deep breath. “They’re targeting London again.”

  Paul took a sip of his coffee. It was cold. He watched the markers moving across the table, with more being added and then some taken away.

  “What’s happening? Are all those aircraft downed, on both sides?”

  Ryan shook her head nervously, her eyes still fixed on the map. “You see that clock on the opposite wall with its four colors?”

  Paul nodded. “I saw one like it at Bentley. I thought it was a weird piece of decoration.”

  “Far from it. That lets us know what’s current. The color codes on the blocks correlate with those colors on the clock. They’re updated every fifteen minutes, and the old blocks are removed. So, to get an accurate picture of the current situation and what took place in the very recent past, you pay attention to the color of the block and the time it shows up on the clock.”

  Paul shook his head in wonder. “With the genius of Dowding in the mix, we’re going to win this battle, aren’t we?”

  Ryan held up crossed fingers. Then, at just past 1130 hours, a plotter pushed a marker over the town of Folkstone, near the southeasternmost point of 11 Group’s area.

  “Have we attacked yet?”

  Ryan studied the status boards. “At this point, only our anti-aircraft guns will have engaged. From the German perspective, right now, they are unopposed.” She shook her head. “The good people of Kent are out on holiday, picking fruit at local farms. Their food is provided, and they get more rations when they help with the harvest. Today, they’ll hear what sounds like a buildup of thunder rolling over their fields, and when our chaps appear on scene, they’ll probably see a skirmish or two. To them, the dogfights will appear like confused, swarming insects making faraway popping sounds and then dropping bits of jagged, hot metal to the ground. Then, they’ll see planes fall out of the sky in plumes of smoke, both big and small. In some cases, they’ll be followed by parachutes.” She was silent a moment. “I imagine that for young boys, it can seem quite exciting. They like to pick up the shrapnel. It’s barter currency to them—like trading marbles.”

  Paul reflected on intelligence reports he had seen from Bletchley. And the Germans think our RAF is nearly destroyed. They’ve vastly underestimated our replacement capability. We’ve outstripped theirs. And they don’t know how our air defense works.

  Ryan cut in on his thoughts. “Now you see that 92 and 72 Squadrons from Biggin Hill are above Canterbury.”

  “Are any of them engaged yet? Do we know what type of aircraft?”

  Ryan glanced at the status boards and at the markers on the map table. “Those two squadro
ns have seen the bandits. We know that from the indicator lights flashed at the bottom of the boards under their status: ‘ENEMY SIGHTED.’ As for types, we’re seeing Heinkel He 111 bombers, Dornier Do 17s, Junkers Ju 88s, Stukas, and Messerschmitts.” She studied the map more closely. “One interesting aspect we saw develop recently and we’re seeing again today, and it plays into our favor—”

  “Yes.” Paul held down his urgency while Ryan formulated her thoughts.

  “In earlier days,” she continued, “say back before mid-August, the Messerschmitts flew high above their formations. That gave them flexibility and allowed them to dive on our fighters from above, which is where their tactical strength lies. Apparently, they’ve decided to provide much closer protection for their Heinkels, because their fighters are flying at the same altitudes and speed as the bombers, and they’re staying close instead of going after our Hurricanes and Spitfires.”

  Paul nodded. We heard about that from Bletchley. German pilots don’t like it.

  “They’ve also changed the way they use their Stukas,” Ryan went on. “They were built to be primarily dive bombers, and they were very accurate. But they were used sometimes in a dual role as fighters, and as such, they flew on their own. Back in the early days of the battle, their fighters were sent across our country like hunters, patrolling our coasts, going after our ships, airfields, and factories. I think they were operating under the belief that our air force was much smaller than it was. Anyway, the Stukas are slow and seem to have been returned to their primary role as dive bombers. They were easy pickings for our Hurricanes and Spitfires. We’re seeing them being escorted like the Heinkels, which further constricts the ME 109s. The advantage goes to our fighters.”

  Paul had listened to her thoughtfully. “That’s quite an analysis.”

  “I’m sure you knew. I was burning up nervous energy by telling you. It’s stressful to be sequestered in here while all of that is going on outside, over the heads of people we care for. Our regular citizens live in the front lines.”

  “Still, it’s admirable—the analysis. What’s going on now?”

  Ryan looked across the room at the various indicators and sucked in her breath. “72 and 92 Squadrons from Biggin Hill are engaged. They’re fighting now.” She scanned across the other tote boards and the map. “We’ve launched twenty Hurricanes from North Weald to South London; twenty-four Hurricanes from Northolt to defend Kenley Airfield; twelve Spitfires from Hornchurch to Gravesend; thirty-two Hurricanes and fifteen Spitfires from Tangmere; and eleven more Spitfires from Hornchurch.”

  Her face brightened a bit. “I can’t tell you how we’re doing it, but I can say that our fighters are having an enormous effect. Luftwaffe bombers are going down, and so are their fighters. The first Heinkels have reached Chislehurst, about fifteen minutes southeast of London proper. They hardly have any fighter escort remaining, and they must be at the extreme of their range if they hope to get home.

  “We have six squadrons over London, and six more on the way.” She glanced at the map again. “That’s one hundred and twenty-five fighters ready to descend on what’s left of the Luftwaffe formations. But since we have our own fighters up there, the anti-aircraft guns will remain dormant.”

  Her gaze swept the room again, at the boards and the lights, and the plotters moving about, and the controllers watching, analyzing, and ordering still more fighters into the air over their phones. She took a deep breath. “They’re joined over London. The Spitfires are going after the Messerschmitts, and the Hurricanes are going after the bombers.”

  Paul pictured clear blue skies over the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral in downtown London. In his mind’s eye, he saw fighters like so many bees, chasing each other and tracing lace-like patterns in the sky while the deafening, sobering drone of massive engines in huge formations warned of bombers, which then darkened the heavens with their shadows.

  “They’re turning,” Ryan said. “They’re preparing to fly home, and they haven’t dropped their bombs yet.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure. They must be at the end of their range, though. Maybe they had hoped for targets beyond where they are. But their fighter escort has been cut down. Many headed back, probably running out of fuel or ammunition. Maybe both. And that’s not accidental.”

  Paul gave her a curious stare. She explained.

  “If you’d known what to look for, you’d have seen that Park had the squadrons ordered up at various places along the bombers’ line of travel. The Spitfires drew the fighter escorts away from the bombers, forcing them to use up fuel while the Hurricanes went in to kill Heinkels. So, we beat the escorts whether or not we shot them down.”

  She heaved a heavy sigh. “But, unfortunately, the Heinkels will drop their bombs on the way out. Randomly. Civilians will die. Children.” She held a tight fist to her mouth as her lips quivered. Then she inhaled to regain her composure, although she remained silent. Finally, she said, “The bomber pilots will want maximum speed and to get as high as possible above the anti-aircraft guns, so they’ll lighten their load.”

  As the minutes ticked by, the scenario played out just as Ryan predicted. The enemy formations, those that had not been knocked out of battle, retreated across the map, chased to midway across the Channel by Hurricanes and Spitfires. Then the RAF fighters turned, and they too disappeared from the map as they landed safely at their airfields. At roughly 1:00 p.m., the map was empty, and the plotters resumed personal activities.

  “It’s not over,” Ryan said. “They’re gathering over France again.” She gestured at the map. Two of the plotters had begun setting markers on it. She rubbed her forehead. “What a way to spend a Sunday.”

  Paul returned to watching the numbers mount, his senses numbed. The forces over France continued to build past the size they had been in the morning and did not stop until they approached twice the earlier number. Turning to Ryan, he said, “There must be at least four hundred of them.”

  Tight-lipped and pale, she nodded. “Ours have refueled and re-armed,” she muttered, pointing at the status board. “They’re standing by to scramble back into the fight.” The edges of her eyelids had turned red. “They are magnificent,” she whispered. “And so many will die.”

  She collected herself and pointed toward the German buildup. “They’re coming across in three columns.” She took a deep breath. “We’ve ordered up a single Spitfire off the coast to report what he sees. He’s at Angels 26. God help him.”

  Together, they watched as the wooden blocks with their yellow flags gathered and spread west across the Channel. Paul scanned around the gallery. His eyes were arrested when he saw Churchill and Park. They were on their feet, leaning over the rail, studying the activity on the board. They wore grave expressions. Tears ran down the prime minister’s cheeks.

  On the map, the swarm of markers continued to grow, and then they were over the English coast. “Over four hundred and fifty of them,” Ryan murmured, regaining control of her voice. “Bombers, fighters, they’re all there.”

  Very quickly, status lights on the tote boards lit up for several airfields, and the blocks of wood representing British squadrons appeared once more on the map as fighters took to the skies. Ryan studied the flags.

  “That’s a lot of fighters we have up there,” Paul remarked.

  “Sir Park requested help from neighboring groups. They’re in the mix now.” She watched somberly as the number of markers on the map grew. “Sir Mallory might get to see how his big wing theory works in practice. He’s building one now.”

  A look of increased concern crossed her face. “Which squadron did you say your brother flies with?”

  “609 Squadron, out of Middle Wallop in 10 Group.”

  She pointed at one of the little yellow flags attached to a block. Paul’s heart dropped. There, near the front of the swarm headed out to meet the German formations, was Jeremy’s squadron.

  “Littlefield,” Ryan murmured next
to him, “Littlefield. I know that name.” She whirled on Paul with wide eyes. “Jeremy Littlefield, the chap that’s been in the news. He was at Dunkirk, and he saved a child from a shipwreck. Is that your brother?”

  Paul nodded weakly. “That’s him, and you know only half of what he’s done.”

  “And you have another brother who’s a POW?”

  Again, Paul nodded. Anger showing on his face, he turned away. “I should be up there too,” he growled. “I’m not allowed.”

  Ryan studied him. “I like to think that those of us in this room are also in the fight. What we do will help bring victory.” She placed a soothing hand on his arm. “Both of your brothers will come through, I’m sure of it.” Turning back to observe the board once more, she muttered, “God help them all.”

  A few minutes later, Ryan looked at the clock. “It’s just past two. They’ll meet soon,” she said. “As near as I can tell, we have two hundred and seventy-five fighters facing a hundred bombers and over three hundred fighters. The air-raid sirens will be screaming all over London.

  “Our main advantages are that the German fighters are still staying close to their bombers, and they don’t have a radar system, so they don’t know where our fighters are unless they see them. Speed and surprise are on our side.”

  She peered at the map. “They’ve joined over Romney Marsh. That’s a little ways southwest of Folkstone.” On the map, the German markers continued moving across the coastline into the interior, now intermixed with friendlies.

  48

  “The waiting is the hardest part,” Red said. “Just sitting around here while we know the Luftwaffe is coming over the Channel somewhere.” He pulled back impatiently from the window, where he had been staring out at the sky. More pilots were sprawled on the ground outside. In the far distance, tiny specks traced white patterns against the blue spaces between clouds.

 

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